Picture Perfect
by Hi Pot And News
Summary: AU. Fem!Harry. James Potter had an older brother by his father's first wife. Leonardo Potter married an ambitious woman. "Experiment 217: G-η7. . . At long last, girl! . . . My vision is nigh. . . Lucky number seven . . . She'll be perfect in every way. I'll make sure of it . . . What shall I name her? Elise? Adelaide? Hartford? . . . Oh, I just can't wait!"
1. Chapter 1

**General Disclaimer: **This will apply for any future chapters I might add as well. Seriously, this is the only disclaimer for this story. If you recognize it, it's not mine. If you _don't _recognize it, it's probably still not mine. Any writing of mine will be a patchwork of things I think are cool ideas from other people, sewn together by the thread of my personal writing style.

Please have patience with me since I have several stories on the back-burner, not yet ready for uploading, that also take time to write. My updates will be irregular since sometimes I'll have nothing to do but write and other times, I'll be way from the computer for days at a time.

Also, I'll have crossover fics up sometime in the future, so keep your eyes open for those. They'll be of the Addams Family, LOTR, and maybe even Death Note and Supernatural variety. If you like Kyaru-chan's Harveste Addams series, you might like my re-write of it.

**Early spring of 1954**

It was near sunset and fat rain clouds approached from the east. Under the shelter of pillars and a roof, Charlus Potter paced the length of the mid-sized pavilion that stood in the garden of his family's summer cottage with an air of unfettered anxiety. They had sworn they would meet this afternoon, this the first day Charlus was back from his week-long business trip in Russia. It was nearly two hours after the agreed upon time of their meeting, but his darling was still nowhere to be seen. Needless to say, this concerned him greatly.

As the rain finally reached the Potter property, the sound of hurried footsteps on the stone pathways made Charlus look up with hope. Was it her?

"Natalie?" he called out hesitantly.

The trembling form of his darling sprang forth from around one of the winding hedges and ran straight up the pavilion steps towards him. She collapsed into his arms and sobbed as if the world were coming to an end.

"Natalie, dear-heart, what has happened?" Charlus inquired while taking inventory of her appearance. A deep green dress soaked through and clinging to her skin; boots caked heavily with mud; black hair plastered to her scalp from the water and no ornament in sight. He gently lifted her face and noted the black kohl smudges around her puffy and red cat-curved eyes.

"He's disowned me!" she sobbed. "That cruel bastard disowned me and ripped the knowledge of the locations of the family homes from my mind! He ordered my mother and sister to never speak of me again!"

"Your father?" Charlus breathed in astonishment. What could have brought this on?

Natalie pulled back and sucked in a shuddering breath. Charlus carefully led her over to the cushioned seat and encircled her in his arms. He gently stroked her rain-slicked hair, and rocked her back and forth.

"It was horrible," Natalie began, rubbing one eye with the heel of her palm. "I mentioned in passing to my sister at dinner last night that I was coming to see you today. It was the first time in several months that the whole family _–_ my sister, my parents, and I, I mean _– _have sat down together that I hadn't even realized that not everyone knew you were courting me. Fern knew but Mother and Father were unaware. Father flew into a rage at not being informed.

"Oh, Charlus, you wouldn't believe it, he told me that I was to stop seeing you immediately because he had agreed to an arranged marriage for me with one of his business associates' son! He agreed to it without telling anyone else about it – he hadn't even mentioned it to mother! – and he expected me to just fall in line and accept it!" Natalie snarled.

"I told him I wouldn't do it, of course," she continued, looking despairingly into Charlus' eyes. "I want to stay with you and I have several reasons for not doing it but I wonder if you would rather I had agreed to it instead if you hear one of the major reasons."

"There's no reason in the world I would want to give you up to some stranger!" Charlus replied fiercely, clutching her hands in his. "Whatever your reasons, I support them."

"My first reason is, of course, that I love you, Charlus and couldn't dream of being anyone else's wife. The second reason is," here she hesitated and looked at their intertwined hands.

"What is it, darling?"

"I'm pregnant," she whispered, looking pale and withdrawn.

Charlus sucked in a breath and looked at her in awe. Natalie, not looking at his face, only heard the gasp and curled into herself, looking resigned.

"I know this is a burden I put upon you – what proper nobleman would accept a child born out of wedlock?" she hurriedly added. "But know that I will not burden you further if you no longer want anything to do with me or our _– _"

"Natalie!" Charlus exclaimed, giving her a slight shake to cut off her babbling. "How could think such a thing of me? A child is a blessing no matter how one comes about and ours is a blessing more favourable than I could have ever dreamed. A reason to no longer be with you? It's a reason to finally complete our courtship and be married at once! I could not be happier!"

"Truly?" she asked, stars of hope shining in her hazel eyes. She looked shyly down. "I was so worried. It was the main reason father disowned me. When I told him, he flew at me and tore away a good amount of our family secrets before mother could stop him and distract him for a while. My sister managed to smuggle me some of my belongings into the trunk I keep shrunken in my charm bracelet but father came charging in to burn my things and threw me out of the house before I could get anything else.

"I was so scared you would behave in the same manner," she confessed, seeming ashamed. "I was afraid I'd have to take care of our child with no support."

"I'll not turn you out, of course, but why did you not appeal to your uncle? He's the head of your family, isn't he? You spoke fondly of him, surely he'll not let you be abandoned thus?"

"I might have if my knowledge of where he lives was not taken from me as well," Natalie answered bitterly. "My father truly meant for me to have no one to turn to. I surmise he expected you to turn me out as well."

Charlus fell to one knee if front of his darling and extracted a ring box from his pocket. He presented the modest but beautiful ring to Natalie who had tears in her eyes. He slipped the ring onto her finger and said, "Nata-niicha Sutgird – Natalie, my love – will you marry me?"

Natalie nodded vigorously in response, happy tears trailing down her face.

"Let us tell me parents at once!" Charlus exclaimed, leaping to his feet and pulling Natalie along with him. "Mother has been badgering me to end our engagement and marry as soon as possible to start making her grand-children. I'm sure they'll be over the moon about our announcement!"

Completely disregarding the rain, the smiling couple made for the house, hand in hand.

"What shall we name child? do you know if it will be a girl or a boy yet?" Charlus asked, a pleased grin on his face.

"Maybe Valarian if it's a girl," Natalie mused. "But definitely Leonardo if it's a boy."

"Leonardo," Charlus said slowly, testing the sound of the name. "I like it."

* * *

**March 27, 1960**

Dorea Potter laid panting and gasping in bed, having gone into labour three hours previously. Her usually bouncing curls subdued by the layer of sweat coating her face and trickling about her head as she tossed her head about in agony. A midwife had been called for from the village and was doing her best to make the Lady Potter comfortable but there was only so much one could do.

"It's almost time," the midwife muttered to the Lady's anxiously awaiting husband. Charlus Potter was clutching his wife's hand in a death-grip and was looking on in mute terror. She assured him, "Nothing to fret about, m'lord. First babies always take the longest and hurt the most. She'll be perfectly fine."

Charlus gave no response, thinking back to the last time he had witnessed a child of his being born. His first wife, sweet Natalie, instead of merely gasping and wailing in pain, had taken up her wand and shot curses at him, screaming about how he had done that to her and should be included in the pain of childbirth. Seeing Dorea – proud Dorea – now, barely restraining herself from outright sobbing, he couldn't help but agree the tiniest bit.

Thoughts of childbirth and Natalie brought Leonardo, who was currently in his room, hiding from the screaming, to mind. His quiet Leonardo who had thought of his father before himself and encouraged Charlus to find another wife after the appropriate mourning time for the death of Natalie had passed and Charlus made no move to find himself another woman.

"Find me another mummy," three-and-a-half-year old Leo had said, looking him seriously in the eye. The lad had not said much since Natalie had been killed by that werewolf when he was two. "One that will hug me and make you smile like mummy used to. One that will give me a little brother to play with too."

And so here he was almost two years later, about to witness the birth of the little brother Leo had asked of him. Dorea had been delighted with the idea at the time and said she would get right on it. No doubt she was currently wishing she hadn't made such a promise.

"Here it comes!" the midwife declared, drawing Charlus' attention back to the situation at hand. Both midwife and lord hovered frantically over the grunting and heaving Dorea. At least, the shrill wail only a newborn could produce cut through the tense anticipation, making Charlus heave a sigh of relief and plop ungracefully into the chair behind him. "He's certainly got a pair of lungs on him!"

"What will you and your lady name him, m'lord?" asked the midwife, cradling the baby in one arm and gently wiping the sweat from an un-conscious Dorea's forehead. "She'll wake no later than tomorrow. It's just exhaustion."

Charlus delicately received his son and rocked him slightly, staring into the pink face of his new son.

"His name is James."

* * *

Excerpts from the personal diary of the Countess of Hautmont:

**_December 23, 1979_**

_Experiment 217: G-_η_7_

_Modifications: Natural pigmentation lightened by two shades; UVA and UVB ray resistance increased by a factor of three to counter the decrease of pigmentation; eye colouring (green) lightened by two shades; colour impurities of the eyes (brown and blue) removed; bone-structure: approximate growth-pattern of shoulder-width decreased by 8%, finger length increased by 6.25%, facial structure re-formatted with lighter jaw-line and smaller nose._

_Improvements: Hereditary astigmatism made dormant; hair follicles altered from hereditary wavy to gentle curls; recessive hereditary Veela gene made dominant (this leads to raptor vision and enhanced hearing); dominant hereditary inclination towards obsession (a mental condition inherited from an ancestor that married into the family?) made recessive._

_Enhancements: Expansion of the pupil and iris (By-product of the Veela gene allows for the manipulation of the eye more readily); vocal cords restructured for a wider pitch range; brain growth accelerated for higher cognitive functions._

_Current scans detail a steady rate of development with less that two percent chance for unexpected deterioration. Alterations and modifications have been successfully assimilated by the genetic material and is now being acted upon as if they were the original coding. All modifications have been thoroughly checked over for instability but show no signs of deconstruction. If development continues uninterrupted, the subject should be capable of independent existence in five to six months._

_I do believe I've finally done it. After two exhausting years and six failed variations, I've finally done it. Merlin, save me, I've really done it. _

_ She's coming. _

_ She's viable. _

_ And she's a girl! _

_After so many boys, at long last, a girl! _

_ One would would have thought that from six separate conceptions there would have been at least one or two females thrown in but of course, my darling husband had to be ideal nobleman and begot me only sons. I took care of them as soon their magic gave them away, of course, but I was beginning to get rather exasperated with him. I have no problem with giving him sons but I will have a daughter for a first-born if I have anything to say about it. _

_ It's gotten very frustrating for me to go through all those potions and spells and rituals to assure my child will be exactly as I want only to discover later on that either certain potions reacted badly with each other and resulted in an abnormality, or the child was growing into a boy, completely destroying the point of the unparalleled beauty I was attempting to ensure. I felt like ripping my hair out! I actually dosed Leo with Hippolyta's Revenge the last time we laid together to assure that this time, I'll be getting my girl. Hippolyta's was primarily used back in the time of Zeus and his fellow Greek sorcerers by the Amazonian queens but it's just as effective now as it was then.  
_

_ I truly can't begin to express how . . . euphoric I feel at the moment. All the experiments __– of the _η ___sequence at least __–_ are finally coming to a close and I am on the edge of gaining my masterpiece. No more brewing of volatile potions, no more runes stones pressed to my belly, no more memorizing chants! Finally! My vision is nigh!

_ I've wanted my treasure since I first heard the tale about the hag, Sophia, and her step-daughter, Snow. Hair as black as ebony, skin as pale as snow, and lips as red as fresh blood; Snow's mother had the right idea. Not the usual style I'd use – I lean more to a livelier skin tone with less dramatic colouring – but magnificent when done properly. Who wouldn't want such beauty for their daughter? And now I'm finally going to have her, my precious little treasure. The last scan for the magical signature showed that she's definitely a girl. _

_ Lucky number seven. _

_How curious that seven should be such prominent number in this situation. Experiment 217: G-__η_7. Two hundred-seventeen is divisible by seven, G is the seventh letter in the English alphabet, and _η_ is the seventh letter in the Greek alphabet. Very curious indeed. Quite the coincidence.

_ Leonardo doesn't know, of course. He's not the type of man to care about heirs, he's always so caught up with his research, just like he always was back in school. I'm actually rather glad he's never cared much about this sort of thing or else he might have been concerned when none of our couplings resulted in a child for him. I feel a smidgen guilty about the boys but I don't have any use for a son at the moment and a pretty son would be doubly useless. In any case, I'm sure Leo will be delighted with the angel I'll bestow upon our family and the pride she will bring us._

_ She'll be far more perfect than my sister's daughter, that's for sure. Apolline was all a-flutter when she found out her child was a girl, and halfling as well. Finally, I'll have something far better than Apolline ever will. Let's just see her try and top this genius bit of – what do the muggles call it, again? – genetic engineering. My sweetie will be incomparable on top of being a halfling and won't that just shut up all those relatives that thought my sister so much better than me? Fleur is very pretty and proving to be talented but she'll have little in comparison with my darling masterpiece. Other children will seem like pale caricatures when compared to her. _

_ She'll be perfect in every way. I'll make sure of it._

_ Oh, what shall I name her? Elise? Adelaide? Hartford? Blaine? Faustine? Claudette? It must be distinguished and tasteful. Perhaps I'll ask Leo about it when I tell him that I'm pregnant. _

_ Oh, I just can't wait!_

_ The Right Honourable Countess of Hautmont_

_Lady Diane Potter_

* * *

**_August 13, 1981_**

_Just got back from Apolline's. Late birthday presents were received and all was well. The house was secure and no one besides the family even knew we were there, even the housekeeper was given the day off because we were coming. _

_ The girls are getting along famously. Fleur is officially the favourite cousin. I've never seen Harrington get along so well with anyone, but then I suppose I haven't really given her many chances to have playmates. James and Lily's boy, Jacob, is an easily accessible friend, especially since we're all still holed up in the manor together but a girl needs some girl friends. Jake's a sweetheart and such a little dear – those hazel cow-eyes! – but he just doesn't have the proper plumbing._

_ I'm now completely positive the brain-growth acceleration prenatal potion I took during the last second trimester was a success. Not only has Harrington kept up easily with Fleur, but the tests I've run on my darling shows that she is running on the mental equivalent of a three or four year old and that she started actively remembering things even before birth. I wonder if that means I've manufactured genius? I did wonder how she was potty-trained so quickly. I should look into teaching her to read and write soon. If I bring her around Apolline's little girl often enough, I could have her fluent in both English and French as well!_

_ They were just so cute together today. As Harrington's already been speaking for a couple of months now, we were teaching them to sing Alouette._

_Alouette, gentille Alouette, (Little lark, nice little lark,)_

_Alouette, je te plumarai. (Little lark, I will pluck you.)_

_ Je te plumarai la __tête_ (_I will pluck your head,)_

_ Je te plumarai la tête (I will pluck your head.)_

_ et la tête (and your head)_

_ et la tête (and your head)_

_ Alouette (Little lark)_

_ Alouette (Little lark)_

_ O-o-o-oh!_

_ And it would continue on with mentions of plucking beaks, eyes, wings and tails. I always felt the song was a tab blood-thirsty, especially considering what we are but the girls seem to enjoy it even though Fleur seemed to share my opinion._

_ "Plucking wings?" she asked when she thought about what she was saying. "Who wrote such a mean song?"_

_ "Larks are noisy things in the morning," Apolline had reasoned. "No doubt it was someone fed up with their racket and was feeling very grumpy."_

_ "Then why does Jamie like this song so much if it's for grumpy people?" Fleur replied, pointing at Harrington who was clapping and humming still. She has trouble pronouncing the "H" in Harrington so has recently resorted to using an abbreviated form of 'Jamison', my darling's middle name. "She sings it so happily, it's kind of scary."_

_ Maybe when all this fighting clears up, we can form a girls' choir. Besides Fleur's need to question the music material, the girls seem to enjoy singing and Harrington would get to hone her skills and get her used to being on a stage. She'll be the most accomplished Lady ever known and really, who would want an untalented wife?_

_ I wish this blasted war was over already and for that thrice damned Dark Lord to just drop dead already. How am I supposed to raise a healthy and happy heiress during all this violent nonsense? If everyone important is too busy fighting, how is my perfect little angel supposed to get the appreciation she deserves? Apolline's being such a dear about this, though. It's nice to know she won't allow us to become estranged even though the rest of the Potters and I have become major targets._

_ I do wish someone would tell be exactly why we're being targeted but everyone just tells me not to worry my little head about it whenever I ask. Even Leo, though that might be because he just doesn't like thinking anything about it. Despite what some may think, I'm not some air-headed twit with nothing below the surface; being talk down to in such a way infuriates me. I didn't graduate among the top of my class at Beauxbaton and marry well because I'm a fool._

_ That wife of James', that Lily, does quite a bit of talking down to me. Why, I don't know, since besides being clever with Charms and pretty in face, she's really has no talents; she can't sing, or dance, or paint, or play an instrument. Oh, she's sweet enough to your face and admonishes James whenever he's being a brute but if she thinks someone is below her – though I don't know how she could think that, knowing how common her birth was – she's not above sticking her nose up. _

_ One would think **she** was the Lady of the House for all of the belittling she does of me. Give a muggleborn a Mastery and a well-paying job and suddenly they're sneering at us who were fortunate enough to be born into respectable families and had privileged upbringings. Isn't that called reverse-discrimination or something like that? Because they were not so lucky, they look down on us that were? That would be like me thinking I'm better than her because she's a muggleborn. Hypocrisy is what that is!_

_ And I **don't** think I've better than her because she's muggleborn. I'm better because I'm more skilled and accomplished, I'm of a higher status, and I'm prettier than her; my birth is just a bonus. If we were something like horses or broomsticks, no one would feel obliged dispute my reasoning because it's politically correct to do so among people of their political leanings. I really don't know why people have to drag feelings into everything; the straight-out facts take you so much farther._

_ I'm getting off topic. My frustration at this situation is rubbing off on to other areas as well and making me more irritable than usual. I wish Lily would stop treating me like furniture with a face and I wish someone would tell me why we're being hunted. All this stress is terrible for my skin._

_ For all their secrecy, it's not as if I can't make an informed guess, what with James and his 'secret' vigilante group showing up at odd hours and whispering to each other when they think no one's listening – something about a prophecy and unknown powers – but I'd appreciate being given some hard facts so I can know what to expect. _

_ Really now, what if that murdering madman of a Dark Lord has heard of my darling's unrivaled beauty and wants to spirit her away until she's old enough to be his consort? They shouldn't dismiss me so, a mother needs to know these things!_

_ The Right Honourable Countess of Hautmont_

_Lady Diane Potter_

* * *

**_July 3, 1982_**

_ We're popping out for a bit to go shopping for birthday presents. How odd it is that Harrington and Jacob were born on the same day. It was as if little Jake knew I planned to have a Healer in to have Harrington extracted on the thirty- first and decided that it was a perfectly agreeable day for him as well. Little tyke rushed it a bit, what with him being born a few hours earlier, but I suppose it really did make everything more convenient for everyone now that they can share birthday parties. I must thank him for this properly when he's old enough to understand._

_ I'm not really sure why I'm writing this now instead of waiting until we get back so I can detail the things we bought but I had the queerest feeling that I should do it now. It's a sort of prickly feeling and now I simply can't leave without writing this down first. How very odd. _

_ Maybe it's a premonition and it'll turn out that Harrington will find this diary while we're out today and read it, trying to find out what presents she'll be receiving. _

_ If you're reading this, pet, you know better than to play about with Mother's things. Put the diary down and finish your German lessons. If you're done by the time we get back, you'll get a second slice of cake for dessert._

_ If I hear word about you playing with Jake on that broom again, I'll be very upset. Ladies do not indulge in such boisterous games, as I've told you several times before. Such unladylike behaviour could attract the attentions of undesirables! And you can be certain I'll be asking __your Aunt Lily about it too! Don't be surprised if it turns out she 'tattled' on you. I'll be asking the moment we get home._

_ The Right Honourable Countess of Hautmont_

_Lady Diane Potter_

* * *

**July 5, 1982**

James Potter, now Regent of the Old and Noble House of Potter, sat slumped in an armchair, weeping bitter tears for his recently killed brother and sister-in-law. Lily sat on the right arm of the chair, holding his head to her chest and stroking his hair, also immeasurably sorrowful.

"The just popped out to get presents," James said mindlessly, clutching at the sleeve of lily's blouse. "Just for a few minutes. Everything was already paid for and wrapped; they needed maybe five minutes at most, out in Diagon, before they could come back. It was supposed to be safe."

"I know, darling," Lily murmured, laying her head on his.

"They weren't even targets," James continued, starting to raise his voice. "They were disguised and the Death Eaters weren't even trying to kill anyone but that _damned_ building still fell on them. It was an ACCIDENT!"

Lily shushed him and rubbed his back. "Not so loudly, James, the children are asleep!"

"And what about Harry!? Lily, what if Diane's family try to take her from us? What if they say she's not safe with us as take my niece from me as well? We can't lose little Harry as well!"

"James, James, it'll be okay. We won't let them take Harry. They won't be able to find us remember? We're still under Fidelius."

"They'll try!" James insisted, a crazed light in his eyes as he yanked his hair desperately. "You know they'll try! The way Diane described her family, I'm surprised they're not knocking on the door right now. We gotta do something, Lils, something that'll make sure they'll never – short of outright kidnapping her – be able to take Harry away from us! It would be like them trying to take Jake away!"

"Alright, alright," Lily soothed, her mind buzzing through possible ways to achieve what James wanted. "I'm sure there as several ways to do what you mean. We can look up adoption ceremonies. Don't worry so much, we won't lose her."

"I can't lose any more of my family, Lils," James sobbed.

* * *

The Daily Prophet

November 2, 1982

**PETER PETTIGREW ARRESTED FOR THE MURDER OF RABASTAN LESTRANGE!**

By Nadia Grimshaw

In a continuation of unbelievable events, it has come to air that Peter Pettigrew, former friend of the recently martyred Potters, was actually the one who betrayed their whereabouts to the Death Eaters, resulting in their death by You-Know-Who's own hand, just before their surviving son, Harry Potter, defeated You-Know-Who.

(Refer to the November 1st edition of the Daily Prophet to read more on the Boy-Who-Lived)

What his motives were can only be speculated on but afterwards, in what we might assume a fit of insanity, instead of trying to avenge his master or going into hiding to evade the Aurors, Pettigrew went after Rabastan Lestrange, younger brother to Rudolphus Lestrange, a well-off businessman whom was recently murdered by his insane wife.

(More on the murder of Lestrange on page 6)

Multiple Aurors gave their statements about what they witnessed at the crime scene.

"He [Pettigrew] was just standing there, laughing," said Junior Auror, John Dawlish. "Half the street was torn up straight down to the pipes the muggles have under their roads, and bodies were strewn everywhere. What could be found of Lestrange was a smear of soot on the side-walk with his fading signature on it. And the crazy bastard was just standing there, cackling, and saying, 'I killed them! It was me! I'll kill all you bastards too and I'll see you in Hell!'"

"I've no idea what Lestrange had in connection with Pettigrew," said Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "There was no known past history between them, not even back in their school days, when they both attended Hogwarts. We can only assume Pettigrew had gone insane, possibly the magical backlash of You-Know-Who's death utterly destroyed his mind, and his dysfunctional mind then came up with a perceived slight Lestrange committed against him. The only thing I've absolutely sure of is that Pettigrew is going to be locked up immediately for the rest of his natural life. His crimes are too vast for anything else."

(More on Pettigrew's arrest on page 5)

* * *

On a windy afternoon in early November, behind a shady willow tree in an empty park, a pair of witches, one an adult, the other a small child, appeared from nowhere with a sudden crack. The elder had a professional look on her face and after making sure the child was not dizzy or disoriented, led them at a comfortable pace down the street.

The neighbourhood could be described as posh. The houses were tall and well-kept with sizable front and backyards separated by well-groomed hedges. The street the pair were currently walking down was Anise Avenue in the suburb of Greater Whinging. Expensive cars were parked in the driveways and a few houses were spotted with children playing in the front yards. Their destination was two roads down and third from the corner, Number Six, Willow Way.

As they walked down the tidily kept side-walk, they received a few curious looks from some of the children playing outside, but they were readily overlooked, what with the people of this neighbourhood respecting privacy and generally being not very nosy. They ambled in comfortable and undisturbed silence.

"This is it," the older witch said, looking down at her smaller companion. "Are you ready?"

The little girl only nodded.

In sync, the pair walked up to the door of Number Six and the older woman grasped the knocker and knocked on the door three times. There was a moment of waiting before they heard, "Coming!" Not a minute later, a tall, thin woman with an equally thin face answered the door and looked curiously at them.

"Yes?" the thin woman asked. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Petunia Todd? I'm Cordelia Oglethorpe from Magical Child Welfare. I believe I called you yesterday about taking in your niece?"

Petunia Todd's face turned grim. "Yes, I remember." She gave the sombre girl beside Ms. Oglethorpe a speculative once-over before nodding at the pair. "Please, come in. My husband is home and I'm sure he'd like to hear the whole story as well as I would again."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I'm posting these first two chapter back to back since they've been sitting for several weeks already, waiting to be uploaded. The next chapter will is already being worked on but might take a while since I'm writing The Price is Right at the same time.

* * *

**O**n a muggy evening, somewhere near London, a young girl with long, dark brown hair painstakingly restrained, brutally pulled back, and sculpted into an exaggerated braided bun, sat behind an antiquated piano off to the side of a slightly elevated stage that was currently playing host to quartet of teen-aged musicians. Her fingers dutifully flew over the keys of the piano with an ease that spoke of years of practice, while her eyes took in the crowd. It was a black-tie affair taking place in a rented, high-end, banquet hall. There were dining tables spread through-out the hall where sat a goodly amount of the posh and privileged that regularly showed up to these sort of things.

She was curious-looking thing; her face so much like a china doll's, she wouldn't look out of place sitting on a shelf; a bit on the small side for her age (bullies in her dance classes called her 'scrawny'); rather long fingers. On a regular day – that is, when she wasn't being pranced about like a show pony – her hair threw it's excessive weight around in aggressive curls and waves that seemed to have a life of it's own. Pale eyes a shade of shocking green peered out from under a long fringe floating about her face that hide the most curious thing about her; a lightning bolt scar that ran down the side of her right temple.

"That's where it happened," her aunt and uncle told nosy people that asked. "That's where that crazy murderer managed to cut her before help came and someone got her out safely." That, of course, was when the inquiring person become horrified, apologized for asking, and never mentioned it again. It wasn't the truth, but it was close enough to the truth that they didn't feel bad for saying it.

Despite her curious looks, not one person was paying her any special attention at the moment so she allowed her face – which she had fixed into a polite, closed-lipped, smile with wide, equally polite, faintly interested eyes – to settle into an expression of suppressed discontent. It had been hours since she had began playing – over an hour since her last break – and this was the last performance, she reasoned to herself, scanning the crowd over again, surely she could allow herself to rest her facial muscles at the very least. She covertly flexed the muscles in her fingers and longed to loosen her braids to relieve her scalp of the throbbing tautness of her torturous hair-do. If beauty was indeed pain, she must have been a breath-taking sight.

The quartet off to her right was from some prestigious secondary school that she couldn't, for the life of her, remember. Saint Something-Or-Other's Private Academy for Smarmy Snots, possibly – and if it wasn't, it damn well ought to be. The youngest of the quartet, a thirteen year old named Alec, managed to insult and thoroughly talk down to her all while trying to impress her, the self-important swot. In fact, most of the groups that had graced the stage thus far were from supposedly prestigious origins, one way or another. Primary schools, secondary schools, universities, independent studios; all forms had come represented for this gathering of string players. A fundraiser of some sort, or a competition.

'Or, quite possibly,' the girl grumbled to herself, 'some tedious fund-raising competition sponsored by one of Aunt Petunia's fat-headed business associates, hell-bent on exploiting children for their own gain.' The event charged for entrance, dinner, and also encouraged donations for whatever it was they were supposed to be fund-raising for. The groups competing were not getting paid, she didn't think, they would only be getting a trophy if they won. Where in the world was the money going?

'Mercy,' she thought yet again, 'isn't this the _fifth _time we've repeated this section? Surely we ought to be near the end of this song. Perhaps this stupid quartet represents a school for the amnesiac and actually _can't_ remember that they played this part before. Maybe _that's _where the money raised is going to go.'

Her thoughts were then disrupted by a displeased, pinch-faced look from her aunt, sitting at a table just off stage, whom had finally given her a glance and found her without the appropriate face on. At once, the girl slipped back on her pleasant expression and banished her previously uncharitable thoughts. 'It doesn't matter any way to _me _how the money will be used. I'll be paid my usual rate and it sure won't be coming from the donation pile.'

At long last, the performing quartet reached the end of their everlasting song, and she accompanied them off with a flourish. The lead violin player – not Alec but snooty enough to be Alec's clone – somehow managed a particularly pompous bow, with lots of arm waving and ramrod-straight back, all the while doing an impression of someone with their nose trying to fly away from them. His companions then followed his lead off the stage, their noses also scraping the plaster off the ceiling.

'I wonder if there's a class for that,' she speculated as she dipped into a slight curtsey. 'If there is, I suppose it would be a core class that everyone that wants to attend that school has to take. You can't be a proper Smarmy Snot if you can't look down your nose at someone at just the right angle. And the prize for being the top of that class would be the privilege to lead the lesson during sneering practice.'

"Come along, Harrington," said her aunt from the steps of the stage; the brisk tone pulling her out of another bout of uncharitable thoughts.

'Harrington' dutifully followed after her Aunt Petunia down from the stage and towards a table that seated the event coordinator and the aforementioned business associate, her eyes trained on the black high-heels her aunt favoured, never looking right nor left or even allowing her eyes to cut across the crowd again. Don't bow your head but keep your eyes downs and walk lightly, without hesitation; that's the way of being invisible in a crowd. Don't give them a reason to notice you. One of the few useful things she'd learned while being dragged around by her aunt all these years.

'I suppose the pleasant expression is another thing,' 'Harrington' mused as she smoothed down the back of her ridiculously frilly skirt and sat down at the table, next to whom she assumed was the event coordinator's son. 'The expression's relaxed enough not to be fake but has just enough up-turned lip to be considered a smile. Hard to be suspicious of it since there's nothing suspicious about it.'

She turned this expression on the rather awkward looking boy seated next to her while the adults at the table got reacquainted.

"Hello," she said quietly, nodding to the boy after a moment of uneasy silence in which he openly gawked at her. "I'm Harry."

The boy reddened unbecomingly and shifted a bit in his seat. He looked about twelve, gangly, with the beginnings of acne rearing their unappreciated heads on his forehead and around his nose. The suit he was wearing looked a bit too short as if he'd had a growth spurt but didn't realize it in time to have his suit re-tailored. His light brown hair was parted severely to one side and slicked down with a liberal amount of hair gel which seemed to be the same look his father was sporting. Over-all, he looked quite uncomfortable in his skin and seemed rather surprised that Harry was even acknowledging him.

"Eugene," the boy mumbled, not used to girls talking to him, let alone more or less smiling at him, his voice cracking a bit on the second syllable. He cleared his throat in embarrassment then said more a bit confidently, "I'm Eugene Fitz-Carlton. Nice to meet you. Are you Mrs. Todd's daughter?"

Harry despaired at the fact that the boy wanted to keep speaking beyond the obligatory greetings.

"Her niece, actually. I live with my Aunt and Uncle."

"Oh, sorry," he replied, flushing a bit at his assumed faux pas, then tried out a more nonchalant expression. "Do you often come to these sort of things?"

Was that a variation of 'Do you come here often'? Was he trying to feed her a pick-up line?

"Hmmm, yes. Aunt Petunia likes to have me at things like this. I suppose your father brings you to these things often?"

"I'm actually only here tonight because I go to one of the participating schools. I go to school with that last group actually."

"You came to cheer them on?"

"All of the school's string orchestra is here tonight. It's considered a participation grade – "

"Well, hello there!" cut in Eugene's father with a surprised tone, as if just noticing Harry sitting there. Eugene looked a bit put-out about being dismissed so but gave no complaint, just sitting back with his lower lip poking out a tad. Mr. Fitz-Carlton leaned forward and gave her a grin with a surprising amount of gleaming teeth. While still looking at her, he addressed her aunt, "Petunia, would I be correct in assuming this is your talented niece I keep hearing about?"

"Yes, this is my Harrington," Aunt Petunia confirmed smugly, as if Harry were a particularly fashionable hair ornament that she'd worn just to show-off.

After a flash of irritation, Harry quickly concluded, like she'd concluded several time before, that her aunt ignoring that she hated being called Harrington was not worth the effort of arguing with.

Her aunt reached over and fondly patted the top of Harry's bun. "I've been meaning to introduce her to you for a while now so I figured I'd get her especially prettied up for tonight since I don't believe you've ever even seen her before. Have we made a good impression?"

"She's _adorable!_" cooed a vague-looking blonde woman Harry thought might be the wife of the sponsor. "And she played so prettily!"

"Wonderfully!" Mr. Fitz-Carlton agreed. "From what I've heard, I expected her to be a bit older. Yvonne was raving to me the other day about how she wept like a baby at your niece's rendition of Ode to Joy. Inspiring, she called it. She went on and on about how many instruments she played and how beautifully. I was expecting a serious-looking young woman in her twenties. Imagine my surprise when this little lady sat herself down at that piano and showed us how it's done!"

The table shared a laugh and gave Harry indulgent looks, like admiring a pet that had performed a difficult trick. She ducked her head bashfully and smiled sweetly at them in return, wondering if they were naturally that condescending or if they received instruction on it. Or maybe she was just in a terrible mood and expecting the worse of everyone. Such moods often overcame her.

Aunt Petunia gave her another fond pat while Eugene gave her an admiring look. The table started in on the usual vague discussions adults get into when they were trying to sound worldly and terribly high-classed, in this particular instance, going on about composers and their famous pieces. Bach, Mozart, Beethoven; Aunt Petunia even got ambitious and mentioned Paganini's Devil's Trill.

Eugene and Harry glanced at each other at the same time in exasperation. Eugene flushed and gave a goofy grin when Harry's lips curved into a more pronounced smile.

Mr. Fitz-Carlton had caught the look Eugene had sent her and glanced at both of them with consideration before a gleam of calculation entered his eyes. "You've mentioned before that she's home-schooled, right? Eugene here goes to St. Christopher's and they accept boys _and _girls. The music department would likely jump at the chance of getting such a talented new student. If she's half as intelligent as I'm sure she is, she'll slip right in quite easily with the rest of the third-years. And she'll already have a friend to start off with!"

Aunt Petunia looked on in vague confusion for a moment before sweeping her gaze over Harry, realization hitting her. "Oh, goodness me! It must be how tall she looks in those boots and the way I fixed her hair! Harrington turns eleven in three days; I'm sure she'd be more suit for the first year if anything."

"Oh?" Mr. Fitz-Carlton with faint disappointment. The expression was echoed more pronouncedly by his son. "I was so certain I remembered you saying something about have a child entering their third-year."

"Yes, my son, Benedict. He's my oldest, then there's Dudley who's a month older than Harrington, and then Ashford who's nine years old. I'm not surprised you might have gotten them a bit jumbled since I don't bring them to these kinds of things. My boys respond better to normal schooling instead of at home like their cousin, so I don't have the same chances to bring them along with me during the day. That and young boys aren't known for the patience to sit quietly for several hours, as I'm sure you know."

He laughed, "I suppose I should count myself lucky that Eugene is such an easy-going lad, in that case." He gave his son a pleased look. "Get's that from his mother. I'll never have to worry about _him_ going off and setting something on fire."

"I'm sure he does you proud."

"Is she going to keep being home-schooled then?" asked the sponsor, Mr. Edwards, a greying gentleman sporting mutton-chops. "I'm sure you've been educating her properly, of course, but joining a good secondary school now and a university later would only add to her credentials if she ever has need of them."

"Ah, yes," Aunt Petunia said smilingly, leaning forward with a self-satisfied look on her face. "We were originally going to send her to a school of Performing Arts but a few days ago we received a letter requesting her attendance at a school for the gifted.

"Very private, you know. It's been around for hundreds of years I've been told, but they're very low key so not many people have heard of it. I'm not exactly sure how they sort through applications but I do know that children of alumni have priority. My sister went there; that's where she and her husband met. I supposed I shouldn't be surprised that Harrington's following in their footsteps but it does do me proud to know she's going somewhere special."

The rest of the table look suitably impressed.

Oh, she was very good. Aunt Petunia was making it seem like she couldn't be more pleased that Harry was going to that school. That Hogwarts place. She probably _would have_ been delighted if it actually was the type of school she was making it out to be. Though one _could_ call it a school for the gifted if one considered having magic as 'gifted.'

The acceptance letter had arrived during breakfast, the day after Dudley had gotten his new Smelting's uniform, his birth father guaranteeing him a place at his high-end alma mater _and_ paying for the expenses, even though he didn't really want anything to do with Dudley. Probably he just wanted someone to follow in his footsteps.

The Todd family was a bit unusual. Their sons were all half or step-siblings. Benedict and Dudley as step-brothers and Ashford as a half-brother to both of his older brothers and also technically a step-brother to Dudley as well. It was all confusing and Harry was very glad she had remained just a cousin instead of being legally adopted as well. It was enough to tie a mind in knots.

Petunia and Michael Todd had met at a garden party after Michael's former wife had died – leaving him with his one year old son, Benedict – and Petunia was engaged to some tosser named Vernon Dursley. They became fast friends; he appreciated her cool business mind and she in turn appreciated his straight-to-the-point attitude. Petunia even invited him to the wedding she and Vernon were planning. A bit after that, they became more than friends when it was discovered that she was pregnant and Vernon had immediately ran off – he had _not _wanted children.

Petunia had fumed for months, angry instead of hurt, before she and Michael started courting. They married not long after since both of their sons needed stable families and they really did get along quite well. Ashford's birth had only added on to their happiness, Michael had always wanted lots of sons and Petunia enjoyed being needed.

When Harry came into their lives as the unnaturally stoic two-year-old daughter of Petunia's dead, estranged sister, they weren't sure what to do with her. Petunia had been shocked to hear that her sister and her husband were dead and was doubly horrified to find out that they had been murdered. Her uncompromising resentment of Lily died that day, replaced with regret that she never reconciled with her sister before she died. Petunia could only hope to do right by Harry in atonement even if she still didn't want anything to do with magic.

Harry was a puzzle to them; She didn't get into mischief like Benedict, she didn't cry or fuss like Dudley, she didn't demand constant attention like Ashford. She seemed almost like an adult in a child's body with how little she seemed to need either of the adults beyond being fed.

She spent most of her time sitting quietly; sometimes looking over a spare picture book or staring at a stuffed animal. _Staring _at it, that's what made the couple a bit nervous when they thought about it. Not moving it about or making noises like Benedict and Dudley did when they played with their toys but just holding it in her lap, looking at it blankly unless she was told to put it away for later.

The boys adored her, though. Her unwavering stare applied to people as well and their sons couldn't get enough of such undivided attention when they were used to Michael spending long hours at work and having nannies when Petunia wanted rest. Ashford couldn't do much active fighting just yet but his two older brothers were perfectly capable of doing outright battle for Harry – if you could call pushing, whacking each other with stuffed animals, and juvenile name-calling battle. In any case, she seemed to enjoy how much they wanted her for themselves and at times seem to goad them into it by batting her lashes cutely at one brother while the other watched.

Petunia wasn't sure if she should have been amused that her boys saw Harry as the princess-locked-in-a-tower-to-be-rescued-and-won-over type, disapproving that her niece got her boys more worked up than usual, or grudgingly proud that Harry was already skilled in use of feminine wiles.

Was that normal behaviour for magical children? Michael had asked that of Petunia. He had been sceptical of magic when he was told about it but the child-services witch that had come to drop off Harry had proved it to him by transforming into a bird. Petunia replied that Lily was not like that as a child but she wasn't sure about magical people who had not been born from the non-magical.

"It might be the trauma," Michael had said. "That child-services woman did say Harrington was in the room when her parents were killed. Something like that could really mess a kid up. I'm surprised we haven't been dealing with screaming nightmares or catatonia. Being rather stoic seems tame in comparison."

After six months of no noticable change they were starting to despair and began considering taking her to a child psychologist. Harry accepted touch and physical affection; she allowed Benedict and Dudley to drag her around while they played. She ate properly, did as she was told, and had facial expressions. But she was like that since she arrived. She never smiled and rarely said anything. She always looked a bit ashen or ill. Was she getting better? They couldn't tell.

"Harry's so sad all the time," Benedict had told them in a fit of keen observation, nearly cracking one of his cousin's ribs in a bear hug. "I give her hugs 'cause those always make me feel better when I'm sad. She's still sad so she needs more hugs."

It was on Ashford's first birthday that the couple's mind was put at ease. They had been planning a little birthday party for a week. Just a small family event but Michael took the day off and Petunia had pre-ordered a birthday cake. She had helped the children paint pictures and make little craft items for birthday presents. Harry had dutifully used the newly bought art supplies to paint what looked like stick figures in party hats standing around a giant cake, but afterward looked rather dissatisfied with what she had made.

After the song had been sung, cake had been passed out, and presents opened, Harry opened the kitchen window and let a little bird in that had been perched on the window-sill. Petunia and Michael were all set to scold, secretly relieved that their niece was finally showing some childish naughtiness, when they were stopped mid-rise from their seats by Harry whistling and the bird responding.

At her signalling the bird flit about in front of Ashford, doing what could only be described as an aerial dance. Loops. Turns. Dives. It even landed on Ashford's high-chair at the end and chirped the birthday song as Harry whistled the tune. The boys were delighted, Ashford especially, clapping and squealing, cheering the bird on. When the little bird finished it's song, they all applauded, Michael with great enthusiasm since he'd been wanting to see more magic after that first time.

Harry had looked absolutely radiant as she conducted the bird about. She had always seemed not completely there, like a faded photograph that was left in the sun too long and lost its vibrancy. But at that moment it was if whatever it was she was missing was suddenly right there; she was whole again. And when they began to clap, the sweetest smile graced her face. It might have been slow going, but Harry was getting better.

Over the years, Harry had continued showing an unusual talent in controlling her magic. It was never anything that was obviously magical; birds that responded to command could have been trained without magic, learning how to play instruments from the instruments' memories of being played could be passed off as prodigious natural talent. It was subtle and controlled instead of catastrophic and accidental.

If Petunia had been more magically savvy, she might have been curious but instead she was thoroughly pleased that Harry didn't _seem_ completely out of the ordinary. She had even begun convincing herself – as she carted her niece about to perform at garden parties, dinner parties, weddings, and the like – that Harry wouldn't even have to go to Hogwarts since what Harry could do wasn't really _magical _as it was a show of genius. That might have been part of the reason why those people had given the child over to her! Even if she _was _technically magical, surely she wasn't magical enough to go to that blasted school.

'Her version of wishful thinking,' Harry decided, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of her, pretending to follow the boring conversation in front of her about prestigious schools even though her thoughts were miles away.

When Aunt Petunia saw the acceptance letter in the mail pile, she had gone frighteningly pale before flushing a furious red.

"That damned letter!" she had snarled, snatching up the envelope before smacking it against the table, making the silverware clatter.

She'd gone off on a rant about how none of that obnoxiously bizarre insanity that her sister had made happen had gone on around Harry. Sure, her most notable talents were a bit unusual but she'd never made things fly around or change colours or made wilted plants bloom. Obviously, Harry wasn't unstable like Lily was. In what way did she need further education in magic? Sure, she herself would be happier if Harry couldn't do magic at all – the unnatural nonsense! – but she managed it just fine without being a blatant weirdo about it. Far more than any of those other freaks could claim!

The children were ushered out of the kitchen by the latest nanny as Aunt Petunia worked herself up into a fine froth.

It had taken Uncle Michael – who was surprisingly at home for a few days instead of at work, piloting an aeroplane – a trying amount of time to calm Aunt Petunia back down and convince her that since they themselves knew very little about magic, they wouldn't be able to know what an actual proper education was for a magical person. Surely the school wouldn't have contacted them if Harry _didn't _need to go to a magic school.

"A person doesn't go to the hospital with a broken leg just because the feel like it."

Surely it would be better to have the experts give Harry the same education her sister received if only for the fact that it could be potentially dangerous for Harry not to be taught.

"What if Harry had to be taught things by a certain age or else she'd die? What if magic is like water being poured into a glass and if it isn't regularly used up in a certain way, it spills over and something terrible happens?"

In the end Aunt Petunia agreed they'd all be safer off with Harry getting the normal – "if you could call anything about that strangeness_ normal," _Aunt Petunia had muttered – schooling her mother received when she was that age. It wasn't _Harry's _fault that she had been born with magic any more than it was her fault for having green eyes. Still – in the same way you wouldn't stay to watch another person eat something you thought completely revolting – Petunia wanted little to nothing to do with magic.

It was for this same reason that Aunt Petunia had recently taken to pretending nothing was wrong while completely avoiding what she felt was an elephant in the room, barely spending any time dragging Harry about any more and even refusing to take her to Diagon Alley for her school supplies. Instead, she rang up the child-services witch for someone to take Harry. She came once every six months to check up on Harry, maybe _she _would know someone available.

"They sent the Deputy Headmistress to take my sister to that shopping district the first time around without having to be asked. It was mentioned in the letter Lily got that someone would come. I assumed they did that for all children from normal families," Aunt Petunia had said with a bit of irritation.

"That's the standard procedure for muggleborn children at most schools," Ms. Oglethorpe had confirmed. "However, Harry would be on the school register as a wizard-born. The situation you're in is rather unusual since magical children normally go to their nearest magical relative if their parents can no longer take care of them. Because of this, you should have received the standard Hogwarts letter for wizard-borns. They will probably send a representative if you send them an owl."

"Where in Heaven's name would I find one? The letter didn't come with an owl to send the letter back with. Pet stores don't sell them and even if they did I doubt they would be trained to carry letters!"

"Hmmm, this is very unusual but I could come around on an off day and take her myself if that works for you? I'm assuming you haven't replied to the letter yet so we'll have to make it before the thirty-first to have time to get an owl for the return letter."

"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Let's make it the twenty-ninth so there will be plenty of time for the letter to get there."

"Alright, I'll see you then."

Now it was the night before the twenty-ninth and Harry could hardly think of anything else. She was so excited in a way she'd never felt before. She was finally going to learn proper magic!

She had always known about magic, of course. Ms. Oglethorpe always came with magical presents during her visits. Harry had a corner in her room – the only corner _not _being used up by sheet music, instruments, or art supplies – as a shrine to those possessions. A training snitch; the Archimedes Forbes series; a yo-yo that changed shape every time it rolled down, a pair of steel-toed boots from Benedict that he had given to Ms. Oglethorpe to be enchanted so that they could turn into ice skates or roller skates at the click of her heels; things like that. Magic, while not really a huge part of her life at the moment, was ever present.

Harry was secretly thankful to have those little reminders of magic to insure she didn't forget more than she already had.

Something she had never told her relatives was that she could remember her parents. She couldn't remember specific events but she remembered being held and sang to. She wasn't sure why everyone assumed she couldn't when it was known that children started actively remembering around their second year, and she had been a few months older than two when they died, but she remembered them well. In fact, she remembered them well enough to know – even before Ms. Oglethorpe had told them on her eighth birthday – that Lily and James Potter were not the parents she had been born to.

'A bit too well, then,' Harry had thought one day as she snatched the silver snitch from above her head. She had been dragged into thoughts about parents from Dudley's prattle about an up-coming parent-teacher conference.

Her memories were strange. She was not one of those people with an eidetic memory – she still had trouble keeping up with the schedules her aunt made for her – but her first memories definitely came from before she was around two years old. For goodness' sake, she had hazy memories of laying in a cot while some nurse, speaking in rapid French, hovered over her! It was blurry in parts but she could honestly say that Mum and Dad, while loving and kind and had treated her with as much care as their other child, their own son, were _not _her birth parents.

Ms. Oglethorpe had come on her eighth birthday looking both anxious and excited. She had been digging around at the Inheritance Department at Gringotts since it was about the time heirs of Noble Houses began learning about their duties. She had been shocked to learn that James and Lily had actually taken in their orphaned niece right after her parents, the late Lord and Lady Potter, had been caught up in a Death Eater raid and killed. Why did no one know about this? She hadn't known James Potter even had an older brother! From what she had been told, the aristocracy was under the impression that James had been Lord Potter since his father died back when he was in his seventh year of school. No wonder he never took up the Potter mantle and ran off to become an Auror instead; that was never his responsibility to start with!

But then, this all meant that Harry really had no familial ties to the Todds. Would they still want to remain her guardians? Aunt Petunia had made it very clear the first time Ms. Oglethorpe came with Harry in tow that she wanted as little as possible to do with magic and was taking Harry out of a sense of duty and a desire to honour her sister's memory. It wouldn't be inconceivable that Petunia might become upset enough to turn Harry out.

Ms. Oglethorpe had phrased it as delicately as she could when revealing to them that Harry was actually adopted. Very thoroughly adopted with a goblin bonding ritual, exchanged blood, and being listed under them on the Potter family tree but still adopted none-the-less. She had been surprised when Harry had looked at her blankly before telling them that she always knew she was adopted and had thought they had known as well.

Aunt Petunia had further surprised Ms. Oglethorpe by shrugging it off and saying, "I might have known. She hardly looks anything like my sister besides the eyes and that shade of green is lighter than Lily's."

Ms. Oglethorpe had then taken Harry to the Potter family vault to find journals of past Heads of House detailing their experiences and duties. She didn't have time to look through the other books or talk with the portraits because Aunt Petunia had told them to come back immediately but she promised herself that she'd get herself well acquainted with all the interesting things in the vault one day soon.

'Maybe I'll be able to get that better look tomorrow at Diagon Alley,' Harry thought happily over her plate of roast that she was poking at.


End file.
